Better Days Ahead
by Kendra Luehr
Summary: When Will invites Abigail to spend the weekend at his farmhouse, he becomes bewildered by their similarities - their hopes and dreams, and complete loneliness that spirals them into one another's arms.


**A/N:** This is an RP exchange between myself and a friend, otherwise known as ginevra_alessa (she wrote for Abigail, and I wrote for Will). Although this is a stand-alone piece, it helps to know that before we wrote this, we'd written a separate thread where they went costume shopping together. After their excursion, they shared an intimate conversation and hug, so that's what is being referenced in a few places during this fic. And yes, we _did_ write this around Halloween, which is why we chose this particular setting. I just never decided to share it until now. I hope you enjoy!

"Better Days Ahead"

The next couple weeks had been cautious ones for Will Graham. Abigail's need for physical comfort had startled him, however innocent, and he'd found himself putting distance between himself and his ward. Undoubtedly, she resented him for it. He always gave excuses – lectures, crime scenes, therapy, you name it – but today, he finally stayed true to his word and was waiting for her outside her hospital room.

"She'll be out in just one moment," the nurse informed him. "You checked her out for how many days, again?"

"Uhh, three days," Will said. "It shouldn't be any longer than that."

With a perfunctory smile, the nurse nodded and headed back down the hallway.

Will moved to sit on a bench, but that was when the door opened and an orderly came out with Abigail's signature in hand. He could see Abigail, herself, lingering in the background, and he rose with what he hoped to be a friendly smile.

"Good morning, Abigail," he greeted. "I hope it's alright that I came by unannounced. I wanted to pick you up for our weekend before things got too hectic."

"So _now_ you have time for me?" Her voice was cold and hostile, but there was a slight tremor running through it. Abigail was surprised Will had bothered to come at all. She had packed up her stuff more out of wishful thinking than anything else, but now that Will was actually there, all she felt was pissed. Maybe it was her own fault for letting herself feel hopeful, knowing just how her life was, but their hug had meant something to her. When he'd told her she could call if she needed anything, she had believed he was really going to be there for her – not because he felt _obligated,_ but because he cared for her.

Of course he didn't. He just felt guilty. And not even guilty enough to check in on her over the past three weeks, apparently. Their day together had been special to her, but it was nothing to him at all. There was no one left to love her and she was all alone in the world, and maybe she should just make peace with it. She had thought he was the pathetic one, so easily bent to her will, but it was all backwards. She was the _queen_ of pathetic. As soon as she let him in at all, he conveniently forgot that she even existed. Maybe he'd just wanted to see her with her defenses down, and now that he had, she no longer interested him. The thrill of the chase. Typical. Like the high school boys who had left Marissa crying all over her. Was she so awful to be around? She only wanted a friend – someone who could maybe understand her and wanted to be around her, or call her sometimes.

Abigail should have told him she changed her mind, but that would just let him off the hook, and she desperately wanted out of the hospital. But rather than speak, Abigail gave a tight little nod.

Will flinched at her clear aggravation. He had been expecting some type of hostility, absolutely, but he didn't know how to explain his lack of visitation. There had been many nights when he'd sat by the phone debating on calling – _wanting_ to call – but ultimately picking up a book instead. He had assured himself that if Abigail _did_ truly want him in her life, that _she_ would be the one to reach out. It didn't strike him as fair to dictate everything on his own terms, so he'd thought that by giving her space, he would be doing her a favor. Evidently, he was wrong.

"I'm sorry," Will feebly offered. "I wasn't certain if you wanted me to call, so…I obviously opted against contact. You didn't reach out either, but it was wrong of me to assume." Or at least, he would keep that in mind from now on. He took note of the overnight bag slung over her shoulder, and decided that she at the very least must still be intent on going.

It was a fair point. Abigail hadn't contacted him either. But Will was older, and supposedly good at reading people. He should have known she wanted him to be the one to reach out – that _she_ needed the reassurance.

"I was afraid you might not answer," she said in a small voice. And that it would confirm all the bad things she already suspected.

"I don't have caller ID on my house phone," Will allowed, "but if you'd called my cell phone, I would've answered." _Or so he liked to think._ The prospect of socializing, however slight, always made him uncomfortable. And that coupled with balancing the guilt of orphaning this girl was a recipe for disaster. He was just far too stubborn to acknowledge the fact.

Abigail huffed. "Anyway, it's fine. Dr. Lecter's come around quite a bit. Dr. Bloom too," she added pointedly. "Even Freddie Lounds. So you see, I've really been very busy anyway."

Somehow, the knowledge that Hannibal had visited stung. During their boundless moments of therapy, he had never once thought to inform Will of his visits despite the fact that Lecter, too, had confessed to feeling responsible.

Will's lip curled at the mention of Freddie Lounds. "Dr. Bloom is your therapist, and Dr. Lecter has a personal interest in your case," he muttered. "It's not so surprising that they've been stopping by. Nevertheless, I'm happy you haven't been alone…even though I would _highly_ advise against seeing Freddie Lounds. She's a leech who feeds off of human suffering. And no, I'm not being facetious. Her type of journalism really _does_ thrive if the people involved are suffering."

"Freddie's my friend," Abigail snapped. "Maybe she wants to make money off of me, but so what? At least she seems to enjoy my company. Dr. Bloom's just doing her job, and…" And Lecter clearly had his own agenda. But there was no use going into that. "…it's nice when someone wants you around. Is it so hard to believe that someone might just like me?"

Abigail shrugged, already walking towards the exit. "We can do whatever. I just want to get out of here."

Will followed after her with an even exhale. Deciding to slip into a more _congenial_ role, he dropped their argument and chose to pretend it had never occurred. "The dogs will be thrilled to finally meet you," he said. "And I've got some old movies for you to sift through. That is, if you still _want_ to watch horror movies? We could always opt for something different." He offered her a weak smile. "I even upgraded to DVDs, just for this special occasion."

Abigail pushed past him, appearing aloof and indifferent.

"Alright, let's go," Will muttered, his smile fading. "I have a guest bedroom prepared for you downstairs, so it's already move-in ready. I wasn't sure what kind of accommodations you would like, so I kept things relatively simple."

"I'm sure it's fine," she said about the room. Abigail pressed the elevator button, tapping her foot impatiently. It was clear that she was still sore about the Freddie remarks.

With a sigh, Will rubbed at the back of his neck. "I just don't want to see you hurt," he said, though much more softly this time. "People in this world are malicious." _As you're well aware,_ he mentally added. "It can often be difficult to tell who's offering to help in sincerity – to tell who truly, genuinely _likes_ you without any caveats."

Abigail turned toward him in an instant. "Do _you_ like me, Will? It's very hard to tell." She met his gaze and held it, willing him not to look away.

Admittedly, Abigail's question took him by surprise. Will looked down at her, feeling his jaw tense as she glowered up at him. The barrier of his glasses suddenly felt flimsy and a stinging, uncomfortable heat flared up beneath his shirt collar. "Of course I like you," he stiffly managed. "I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't hold you in some regard."

His answer only infuriated Abigail further. She huffed and scowled down at the floor. "At least I can count on Freddie to be consistent," she said quietly. "It's not like you _really_ care anyway. Am I just supposed to sit around waiting for you to decide you want me around again, and that I'm not just some massive inconvenience you've been saddled with?"

Will released an even breath. "I suppose I deserved that. My methods of communication are less than satisfactory to most, and I…" He trailed off, pinching his brows as he spared her an astonished look. "What are you talking about? What about this situation suggests I don't _really_ care?" He scoffed. "Granted, I haven't been the most diplomatic these days, but I've been encouraged – no, I've been _warned_ – that I shouldn't associate with you. It'll impinge on the healing process, evidently, but I chose to ignore those warnings. Why? Because I _want_ to be in your life, and I _want_ to help you through this difficult time."

Finally, they reached the lobby and Abigail followed Will out to the car. She thought about when he'd hugged her, and how nice it felt to finally be touched like that after feeling like a leper for so long. She had to stop herself from bursting into tears. Why couldn't he just be that guy again? The one who made her laugh at the costume store and talked about his dad and comic books? Who seemed happy to be around her? The one she would have fought for instead of fought _with?_

They both slipped into their respective sides of Will's car, each respective parties stewing in their own self-righteous concerns. It would seem that Will had met an impasse – a very sullen, _mouthy_ impasse – with little regard for his excuses. Not that he could blame her. Abigail had every right to resent him, and all things considered, Will was surprised that she wanted him in her life at all.

"I want to be whatever you need," he murmured, keeping his eyes averted as he started up the car. "If you need something, tell me. If you don't like something I'm doing? Say so. It's the only way we can ever truly move forward."

 _But I want you to step on my toes. I want you to get too close…_

Still, Abigail understood in a way. It wasn't easy living up to other people's ideas of you, forcing out all the parts of you that didn't fit so you didn't disappoint. It was hardly unfamiliar territory to her.

"I don't want you to be someone else," she said softly. "I like who you are... Even if I'm still learning who that is. If you say that you care for me, that we're friends, then I believe it. I just like being around you. It makes things better somehow." Well, she would try to believe it, at any rate.

 _I like who you are._ The notion was honestly inconceivable to Will, given how no one, not even his kind and supportive father, had ever expressed as much. There was always the advisement to hide who he was – to mask things and keep them bottled up inside. Perhaps Abigail could understand because she, too, had been forced to hold everything behind a rapidly failing structure. The realization made him want to reach for her – to assure her that the loneliness got easier – but the lies lodged in his throat and prevented any such assurance.

Instead, Will softly offered, "I'll try to stop thinking so much where you're concerned. I've never been dealt this hand before, so I'm admittedly terrified of ruining you. It's…not inconceivable, all things considered. Especially since I've repeatedly been advised against contact. I could blame that on my distance, but I won't."

Abigail had to swallow a bitter laugh at the notion that there was anything left of her to ruin. Whoever she'd been had died on that kitchen floor that day. She wasn't sure who had risen to take her place – if she was cruel or kind or trustworthy, or even _deserved_ the attention she demanded, but she knew that beneath the fragility on the surface, she was pure steel. Not weak like she had been.

"Will, you can't ruin me, I promise. It might not seem like it, especially today, but I'm stronger than you know. Besides, who's to say I can't ruin _you_ _?"_ she added with a teasing smile. "Maybe I'm the one to watch out for." Her eyes turned serious then. "I don't want to ruin you though. I want the opposite." _I want to help you._ It was too late for her, maybe, but she had hope for him. Chewing her lip, she added, "Your house sounded nice…when you described it earlier. Kind of feels like home already."

The admission made Will smile. "Well, that's a comfort," he said. "I thought you might accuse me of being a lonely, depraved hermit who secretly has a cellar full of bodies. 'Tis the season, and all that." _Perhaps he shouldn't have made that joke._ He doubted Abigail was wholly comfortable with him as it was. He cleared his throat. "Even so, I _don't_ have a cellar full of bodies, but I _do_ have a garage with a boat and motors for tinkering. Not that this is ideal sailing weather, of course. But thank you…I'm glad it sounds nice for you. This is a tough transition, so I want things to be as comfortable for you as possible."

Abigail mulled over his joke and huffed. "Please…" She rolled her eyes. "Girls who live in glass psychiatric hospitals don't get to throw stones." She'd noted his nervousness after making the comment about a "cellar full of bodies," and wondered how long people would tiptoe around her. It wasn't like she didn't know her own story, and had to suddenly remember it anew every time someone mentioned something vaguely related.

She put her hand on his arm gently, laughing slightly. "Will, you can relax. You can say whatever you want. It's not like I don't know the truth about my dad. I've had many long days in a hospital bed to think about all of it. And it's going to be a very strained Halloween if we have to entirely avoid these kinds of jokes. I'd love to see your boat. Maybe you could teach me how to fix boat motors too."

 _What now?_ Abigail was pretty sure she had no interest in that at all, and she wasn't even sure why she'd suggested it. Perhaps it was her wanting to be close. Maybe if she understood why he liked tinkering with old boat motors so much, she could understand him more. Like it was interesting just because it interested him? Or maybe she was just scared he would change his mind about her again, or decide he might ruin her or interfere with her bullshit "healing process" by being around too much. She wanted him to want her around more than he was afraid of it – that was all she knew for sure.

 _Perhaps she's stronger than you know._

Will's brow furrowed, and he gripped the wheel while glancing her way. Hannibal had made this decree only weeks before, but the selfish part of him hadn't wanted to believe that Abigail could take care of herself. He didn't know _why_ he was so hell-bent on caring for others – specifically those who reminded him of his own plights – but Abigail was different. Unfortunately, Jack saw her as "different" too, and insisted she had likely aided in her father's murders. Will refused to believe it. Not until there was substantial evidence proving otherwise.

"Trust me, you can't ruin me either," Will muttered. _You can't break what's already broken._ Switching the radio off, he released an even breath. "Perhaps what you need is a change of scenery. Granted, this technically _is_ a change, given how it's not your hometown, but I'd hardly call my farmhouse a good time. Perhaps your physicians will allow you to go on a trip of your choosing."

With Abigail's hand still resting on his arm, Will attempted to hide his discomfort as he kept his eyes on the road. "You're right," he lowly agreed. "I know what it's like to be treated differently after tragedy… People start walking on egg shells around you, and some even _abandon_ you rather than risk the discomfort. If I ever seem like I'm doing the same, feel free to throttle me. Gently, of course." With a weak smile, he reached up to awkwardly pat her hand before returning his grip to the steering wheel.

"Yeah, it's not much fun, is it? People treat you like glass. I would never abandon someone after a tragedy just because it was uncomfortable. I think that's weak." Abigail wondered who had abandoned Will.

With the discomfort that had distracted him, it took Will a moment to realize Abigail had actually expressed an _interest_ in his favorite pastime. Deep down, he assumed it was because she was bored and wanted some type of distraction, but he would never pass up the opportunity to share one of his favorite hobbies. "I'd be glad to show you," he agreed. "It can be messy work, but grease isn't so bad. Sometimes I'll miss a spot and go to bed that way. I feel like my grandma turns over in her grave every time I smear grease on her warm, handmade quilts."

"I'm not afraid of getting a little messy. I quite like it." Abigail's eyes twinkled. Warm, handmade quilts sounded nice. A far cry from hospital linens.

Up in the distance, the long, winding path of his driveway led up to his quaint little home. Stretches of land surrounded the two-story house, and unruly vines crept along the siding. Self-consciously, Will glanced over at Abigail. "Well, this is it. I hope you won't be too bored here… There isn't much to do since I don't even have cable."

"It's beautiful," she said, feeling a slow smile spread across her face. "I like it already. And I packed several books, should you tire of playing the 'good host.'"

She took his hand without really thinking as they walked towards the house. Everything smelled green and delightful. Like coming home again. She held onto her ridiculous hope that she might be able to feel her parents through the veil, if only for a moment. Just to properly say goodbye. Bothered by a certain thought, she asked, "My parents' house…is there anything left up there? Like, could I maybe go get my stuff? I've heard you can sell murder memorabilia on ebay, 'cause all sorts of creeps come out of the woodwork just to own a bit of blood-stained history."

Clearing his throat, Will flexed his hand in her grasp, feeling his palm grow moist beneath her grip. "Most of your stuff is boxed away as evidence," he said. "There's a long, tedious combing process that requires everything to remain under police custody. But once the Bureau's certain no one else was involved – that Hobbs acted alone – you'll be free to retrieve your belongings." He chose to ignore her niche comment. It had always unsettled him, knowing how there was a sect of people who _enjoyed_ murder and mayhem. Will had seen far too many families destroyed by death to find it fascinating.

For a moment, Abigail felt a shiver of fear. Thankfully, she'd known better than to ever write down anything even close to the truth in the journals she'd kept throughout high school – about the murders, at least. But…what if she'd missed something? The pages of "I hate myself" over and over again could be chalked up to typical teen angst. The records of her father's increasingly strange behavior from before…why hadn't she thought to destroy any of that? She'd thought she had more time.

She didn't like to think of uniformed people in gloves touching her things, carelessly handling the pieces of her past. The stuffed lion her dad had given her as a baby was already falling apart, the wind-up lamb from her mother that played lullabies, the scrapbooks she'd kept with Marissa… She felt homesick for her things.

Desperate to change the subject, Abigail softly added, "This place is really nice. Did you fix it up all by yourself?"

Will couldn't help but flush with pride. Many years of sweat and blood had gone into refurbishing the house, and hearing the validation proved to him that the effort had been worth it.

"It was my first house with my father," he explained. "We, uh…well…my mother left when I was very young, so our first house had too many bad memories. And because of low funds, we hopped from apartment to apartment, biding our time until we had enough money for a house. When that day finally came, my dad was so excited. To this day, I can still see the twinkle in his eye."

A fond smile came to Will's lips, and then he jerked when he felt Abigail squeeze his hand. But rather than shy away, as had been his first instinct, his smile widened and he held her fingers more securely. "I'm glad I can share it with you, if only for a little bit," he told her. "I, uh…I'll admit I've never told anyone the history of this place before. It just never felt right. Not until now." He looked sideways at her with a grin. "Who knows? Maybe with your newfound freedom, you'll be able to stop by more often."

Abigail blinked at the offer. Freedom seemed overwhelming, like a trap in and of itself somehow. No one had prepared her for it. She had coveted freedom, sure, but it was only a concept then. The reality of it was monstrous. But she'd never admit it, never admit she was scared to be discharged from the hospital, that part of her wouldn't know what to do without the dreary daily routine, the false sense of security. If every morning she knew to expect gross fruit cups and sugary oatmeal, and plastic containers of apple juice covered with foil, it meant she knew she could expect _something._ It didn't stop her from hating it there though. Besides, Will seemed to find comfort in routine as much as anyone.

By the time they reached the porch, Will's palm was slightly damp, much like a schoolboy surrendering to the admission of a crush. He kept his eyes trained on the welcome mat, then released Abigail's hand as he unlocked the door. "Be prepared," he warned. "My welcoming committee might be friendly, but some of them still jump. I'm trying my best to get them to stop."

Sure enough, as soon as the door opened, Will's furry brigade came bounding down the foyer hallway. He grinned and bent over to greet them, hoping that this would alleviate the jumping. Buster, however, went straight for Abigail, his tail wagging furiously as he rose on his hind legs.

"I figured he'd like you more," Will said. "Buster's always been a traitor."

Abigail smiled wide as the dogs came barreling out, only slightly nervous. She had heard that dogs were an excellent judge of character, and given her track record, she wasn't so certain she would meet with their approval. "Hi," she said softly. She pet Buster's furry little head and crouched down to scratch behind his ears, leaning forward to bury her face in his soft fur and kiss the top of his head. "You're so sweet," she whispered. "Maybe someday, I'll take you with me back to Minnesota."

Rubbing a particularly affectionate canine behind the ears, Will's expression softened into a genuine smile. "I'd be happy to lend him, you know... Or to take you to Minnesota for a visit. Just name the time, and I'll try and carve it out into my schedule. The Bureau owes me a vacation, so I'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult to come by. Besides…" He rose and dusted off his hands. "I'm very fond of nature walks. I've never been to Minnesota for recreational purposes before, and I think it could be a nice experience."

Abigail was genuinely surprised by how readily Will agreed. Though he had explained why he hadn't reached out to her over the past couple weeks, she had still braced herself for another rejection, followed by an explanation of how it wasn't appropriate or something like that. In a way, it made sense for him to be by her side when she said goodbye. He had been there from the beginning, and he had seen her mother's body where it lay tossed outside like garbage…how that single action had turned all the good things she had clung to about her family into a lie. All the years of their marriage and ultimately, her father only saw her mother as something in the way, something to be disposed of.

The dogs' continuous response to Abigail made a soft, fond little smile trace Will's lips as he led them all down the corridor. "Let me show you to your room," he encouraged. "Truth be told, this was my room as a boy, but I gave it up in favor of my father's room. I mostly sleep on the couch these days, though, since I find more relief in open spaces. It can get hot upstairs."

Leading the way, Will motioned for Abigail to follow him into a small, yet pleasant room overlooking his boundless land. Beyond the treeline was a large pond, which he often used for fishing.

"Well…this is it," Will said, awkwardly lingering in the doorway. "The bed's got one of grandma's quilts on it, so you won't have to worry about getting too cold at night. And, uh…it's got its own adjoined bath, should you need it."

Abigail took in the room and felt a rush of giddiness. A proper room all her own, and _away_ from the hospital! Maybe she'd finally be able to get some sleep. It was not her home, but it was _a_ home and there was something peaceful about it. She could feel its history and it was easy to imagine Will there as a boy.

As he watched her, Will absently ran his hand across the surface of the dresser by the doorway. On top was a small model boat he'd carved at about age fifteen. He suddenly felt shy standing there, almost as if Abigail were witnessing the deepest, most intimate parts of him.

She put her overnight bag next to the bed and sat down, watching Will handle the small boat. "You made that?" she asked quietly, feeling a rush of tenderness towards him.

Will fidgeted, withdrawing his hand almost guiltily from the boat. "Hmm? Oh…" He hadn't even been aware that he'd been touching it. With a sheepish little smile, he nodded and hesitantly stepped into the room. "When I was younger, I moved from place to place quite often – always the new face, always the new student – so I didn't really have time to make any lasting friendships. Because of that, I kind of…decided to take up whittling for a while. I figured hobbies would help."

"Did they? Help?" Abigail asked curiously. Did _anything_ help with feeling completely alone in the world? "My father could whittle – he carved things out of bone, and he could do pretty much anything and make it look effortless, but he worked hard at it. I was never going to be-" _Him._ Which, all things considered, was probably a blessing. "When I was a kid, I thought he practically walked on water. I would have followed him anywhere."

She was saying too much. It felt too good to talk, to let her guard down even though it absolutely should not be.

"Hobbies? Sometimes they helped," Will agreed. "But as with every distraction, it was nothing permanent. Sooner or later, you have to face who and what you are. That can be the most sobering realization." Faintly, a smile tugged at his lips as he listened to Abigail's appraisal. Despite the knowledge that her father was a _murderer,_ there was something almost whimsical and nostalgic that he immediately related to. "Fathers can be god-like," he agreed. "At that age, mine was my whole world. It can be difficult to see fault in what you love."

In between their bodies, a couple dogs weaved in eager figure-eights. "My father taught me how to fix boat and car motors, so I owe everything I am to him. I'm not so sure I would've fared as well, had I had a less understanding parent."

And by "understanding," Will meant that Henry Graham hadn't loved him any less in spite of his peculiar tendencies. Even so, he couldn't help but wonder if his father would be proud of him. The thought made his chest ache.

"I don't know how I would've fared…I don't know who I would have been with a different father," Abigail admitted. Hobbs had made her who she was, at least in part – there was no easy way to determine where nature ended and nurture began. And she couldn't completely write off the good times they'd shared, when he'd been loving – it wasn't that black or white. That's why she couldn't seem to just let go. But she was done blaming Will for killing him. The good parts had withered away, and they were never coming back and she knew it. No matter how long he had stayed alive, she never would have understood him or made peace with what she couldn't understand. He had been lost to her for longer than she could pinpoint – long before Will's frantic attempt to save her.

Smile fading slightly, Will stepped further into the room, looking down at Abigail with a regretful sheen to his eyes. "The world's always full of 'what ifs,'" he assured her, "but clearly, your father wasn't all that bad. You're bright and healthy and perfectly normal, outside of the elephant in the room. If he did one thing right in this world, it was ensuring that you turned into the young woman you are today." He shrugged. "You might have been different, absolutely, had you had a model citizen for a father, but you shouldn't wish you were different. I know I don't."

 _Perfectly normal?_ Not even close. Will really didn't know her at all, obviously, so his praise should have meant nothing. If he thought she was bright, or if he was glad she was who she was…it wasn't really her he was talking about. But Abigail _wanted_ to be that person, and she couldn't help that her face grew flushed, that her stomach felt strange and fluttery. She could be the one thing her father did right, she could change, she could _redeem_ herself. Even if no one would care about any of it if they knew what she'd done, she did. _She_ cared. She wanted to be a better person for Will. She wanted to be the friend he deserved, the one he was going to need.

Clearing her throat, Abigail waved a hand and attempted to salvage the conversation. "Anyway, whittling isn't really approved arts and crafts at the hospital. Handing patients knives is generally frowned upon."

A laugh caught in Will's throat and he nodded, tucking his hands into his pockets. "Right. Well, rest-assured, the only thing we'll be knifing here are pumpkins, and perhaps a pot roast, should I accidentally overdo the meat. And in the spirit of Halloween, I bought a bunch of candy," he announced. "You're more than welcome to help yourself, though I figured we'd save a bit for the imaginary trick-or-treaters that'll never stop through." With a lopsided smile, he removed his hands from his pockets and shrugged. "We could also start dinner, if you'd like? I didn't know what you tend to favor, so I bought a little of everything. Or we could just order out, I guess…if you don't like my cooking." He chuckled.

"A little of everything?" Will really _had_ gone out of his way to make sure her stay was enjoyable, and it made Abigail feel a flicker of something she couldn't fully identify, but it made her smile. "Will, I've been eating hospital food all day, every day for months. Anything you cook will seem like the best thing I've ever tasted, promise. However!" Her eyes twinkled with amusement. "I'll hold off on my excitement, because I don't know what kind of taste you have in candy."

Abigail's brightness caused Will's smile to return. "I don't have Nerds or Sweet Tarts, if that's what you're getting at. I consider those wholly disgusting." Lightly touching her elbow, he encouraged her to follow him toward the mudroom. A small hall pantry was beside the entryway, and he began rummaging around. "I have your basic chocolate variety: M&Ms, Milkyways, Snickers, Kit Kats, Reese's Cups, and Baby Ruths. Surely something in that hodge podge will be calling your name. Though word to the wise, Buster can snatch anything from your hands. He's quite the jumper."

Abigail's eyes widened when she saw all the chocolate. "You have everything!" She grinned. "All my favorites, too. I hope you still like me with all my teeth rotted out and a terrible stomach ache," she teased. "Besides, I'm still eager to find out what a culinary master you are."

Abigail's assurance made Will chuckle. "Well, perhaps you should reserve that judgment until you've actually _eaten_ my cooking," he said. "I have lots of fish since it's a pastime of mine, but I figured you might want something a little less…" _hunted._ "Well…I don't know. What do you consider a comfort food? For me, it was always macaroni and cheese with barbecue pork thrown in. I'm not sure how you'd feel about that, but it was always exceptionally nice to curl up with a hot bowl on a cool, autumn afternoon like today."

"That macaroni thing sounds amazing. I want that!" Abigail was already digging through the candy, tearing into a pack of Reese's cups. It had been so long since chocolate!

Abigail assured him that the macaroni would work, but as he turned to head toward the kitchen, she was already tearing into a bag of M&Ms. "Well, I sure hope you'll save some room then," he teased. "I'm not overly concerned about trick-or-treaters, but I hope you'll at least dole some out for me. Later on, of course." He rarely indulged in sweet treats.

"Oh, trust me, I have lots of room," Abigail promised. She bit into a Reese's cup. "You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I do."

Will's gaze fell toward her slight frame when prompted, and he snorted before heading toward the kitchen. "No, I suppose that's true," he agreed. "The thinnest are always capable of packing away the most. Are you going to eat me out of house and home?"

He began pulling out the necessary ingredients and utensils as his dogs eagerly trotted after. It seemed that they always wanted to be where the action was.

"Any allergies I should be aware of?" Will asked. "Then again, I suppose you would've already told me if that were the case… I'd just hate to make you break out into hives. I have a tendency to wreck most of my friendships, so I figured I could at the very least avoid that potential disaster." And he was rambling now. Fantastic.

Abigail shook her head. "Nope, no allergies. That I know of, anyway. The hives might complement the toothless, chocolate stomach ache thing though. You know, go full on sexy psych ward patient."

Picking up a wooden spoon, Will used this as an excuse to avoid eye contact as Abigail spoke of being a "sexy psych ward patient." Despite the innocuous nature of her comment, he could feel the tips of his ears burning.

Beginning to boil the water, Will turned and leaned his weight against the counter top. He flashed Abigail a wry smile. "I see you've got a little chocolate there…" He paused a moment, then pointed to the corner of his mouth. "I'm a topnotch detective, remember? You can't hide these things from me." Gaze softening, Will felt an odd surge of affection for the girl, his heart swelling with the need to get to know her – the _real_ her – and to share with her what he never had before.

"Oh…" Abigail felt her face flush. She probably looked ridiculous. Perhaps she had gotten overzealous with the chocolate. She giggled nervously at his detective joke and wiped her face with her fingers.

"Is it still there, Detective?" She jutted her hip out and put her hand over it, lifting her face up for further inspection.

After dumping the noodles into a strainer, Will returned the macaroni into the pot before adding cheese and pulled barbecue. He sensed Abigail striking a jaunty pose out of the corner of his eye and raised his head, smiling wryly as she lifted her chin for his perusal.

"Everything looks to be in order," he softly agreed. He nearly touched her chin, but instead tightened his hold on the spoon. "Since you claim to be such a ravenous force to be reckoned with, would you like a regular bowl or a 'hog bowl'? I don't know why I even bother with the larger ones, because I never use them. They're an heirloom that I can't seem to part with."

"A 'hog bowl'? Are you calling me a hog?" Abigail teased.

Will's brow scrunched in bemusement. Buster broke through his blunder with a mission of his own, panting gleefully as he attempted to swipe Abigail's Baby Ruth bar. She evaded the advance and bent over to pet the canine. Will chose that moment to break away and fetch a couple bowls, ladling in the steaming noodles and meat.

"You're naughty, aren't you?" she cooed.

"What?" Will looked over his shoulder in bewilderment, only to laugh when he realized Abigail was talking to Buster. "I told you," he agreed. "That dog should have _Mission Impossible_ music accompanying all his stunts. I'm sorry he took you by surprise there…at least you managed to rescue your candy." Joining her once more, he ducked his head with a shy smile. "And in reference to what you said earlier, no, you're not a hog," he said. "Or at least, not yet. I haven't seen you put all that food away just yet. And be careful with these gaudy, useless heirloom bowls I can't seem to get rid of."

Not that he ever would. Will had so few pleasant memories that he tended to hoard the good in life. He looked to Abigail with a smile and added, "You can eat that in front of the fire in the living room, if you'd like." Handing her the bowl, Will felt the soft touch of her fingers grazing his own as they exchanged glances.

Abigail looked up at him, and they were so close that for a moment she felt like she couldn't breathe. She let out a soft gasp before she could stop herself, relieved that she managed to not drop the bowl.

Abigail didn't just want him for a friend and it was getting harder to deny it. But it didn't matter. Will saw her as a daughter, as a kid. And she still wasn't sure if he just didn't like being touched, or didn't like being touched by _her_ specifically. And he really didn't seem like the relationship type. He had said so himself how he mostly enjoyed solitude. Was _she_ even the relationship type? It was hard to know when you hadn't even had your first kiss, and you'd spent most of your high school years too busy trying to stay alive to concern yourself with that sort of thing. She just knew that when she _did_ finally get kissed, she wanted it to really mean something, and to be with someone who truly cared for her and be someone she truly loved back. It was probably old-fashioned and silly, but she didn't see herself changing her mind.

Lifting a hand, Will tucked a stray lock of hair behind Abigail's ear before giving her shoulder a fond squeeze. "Come on," he entreated. "Let's get you seated."

Breaking away with a shy smile, Abigail settled in front of the fire with her pasta. "This is amazing!" she called back to him. She'd never had macaroni and cheese with pork in it before, but it was delightful. It probably wasn't people, for one thing, and it _definitely_ didn't come straight out of a box. She savored the taste, pausing to inhale the scent. It really did taste…comforting. Like some kind of home despite never having eaten it in her own house. "You really sold yourself short on the whole cooking thing."

As Abigail continued to eat in front of the fire, Will cautiously took a seat in his easy chair, not quite knowing what seating arrangement she would be the most comfortable with. His expression brightened at her praise. "You're just saying that 'cause it's not powdered eggs," he said, accustomed to downplaying his achievements. His father had always encouraged modesty, and in turn, he tended to take it to an extreme spectrum.

Abigail was a little disappointed when Will didn't sit beside her on the sofa, and again, she was forced to wonder if he just didn't like being near people, or didn't like being near _her._ Or maybe he'd picked up on her little crush and was trying to actively discourage her affections. The thought was kind of mortifying, but she was probably being paranoid.

Reclining in his seat, Will blew on the steam while watching Abigail over his own bowl. She was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, hunkered over as she sat in front of the roaring fire. The corners of his mouth lifted and he set down his bowl, content to observe her as she ate. He knew he was probably being creepy – he knew _he,_ himself, would find it unnerving if someone was just watching him eat – but he couldn't help it. It was unusual to see someone so content within his vicinity. He was accustomed to seeing pain and death, so to see happiness – _warmth_ – stirred something deep within.

Clearing his throat, Will finally lifted a bite to his lips. "You can put on the TV if you'd like," he said. "It's tucked away in that cabinet over there – I rarely use it."

Abigail could feel Will's eyes on her and wondered what he was thinking, and if he was thinking she was eating too fast and that he should have given her one of those "hog bowls" after all. But when she caught him out of the corner of her eye, he didn't look especially judgmental. He just looked like he was studying her. Her initial self-consciousness faded and she felt pleased with the attention.

Abigail got up and turned on the TV. There weren't a lot of channels, but she settled on a rerun of _Friends._ She'd been seeing a lot of those at the hospital and it was comforting background noise.

She settled back down and picked up her bowl. "You can sit with me on the sofa if you want," she said quietly. "That way you could see the screen better."

 _Very subtle,_ she reprimanded herself.

With her spoon dangling from her mouth, Will felt an odd stirring of affection as he watched Abigail settle back into the couch cushions. Whenever she wasn't drawing her lips into a sullen frown, there was a soft, unjaded girlishness about her that touched his heart.

Abigail's offer, however innocent, caused Will to blink at her in surprise. She didn't mind…? _No, why would she?_ Perhaps… _You know why._ Momentarily tinged with shame, Will genuinely wanted to believe that she enjoyed his company, but a part of him couldn't help but fear that this was all a ruse.

"I'd be delighted," Will said. Inwardly, he kicked himself for sounding so archaic. It was wholly ingrained in him to speak like the poetry he pored over, which was often a few hours of Yeats or Longfellow before bed (and sometimes Shakespeare, when he was in the mood for something more immersed in pop culture). Regardless, it flavored his speech and often made him sound akin to a forlorn bard.

 _Delighted?_ Abigail pursed her mouth. Well, that was a surprise, considering how he'd reacted to an accidental hand brush as though the contact physically _pained_ him. Perhaps Abigail would just never figure him out, but the more unexpected the reaction, the more she wanted to. Most people were all too predictable – they failed to hold her interest for long. She'd never met anyone like Will before. Probably because there _wasn't_ anyone else like Will, or at least she didn't imagine there was.

Getting up from his chair, Will moved over to sit alongside Abigail. Her legs were crossed and he watched her out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge the appropriate amount of space between them. "I've never seen this show," he admitted. "It seems…" _How did he politely say dim?_ "…Common. As in, lots of people watch it. From what I've gathered." _Smooth recovery._

Will's remark made Abigail laugh. "I know what 'common' means, but nice try. A) this is one of the stupider episodes, and B) sometimes I like something kind of light and brainless. When everything around you feels dark and heavy, it's a good escape, albeit temporary. I started watching it at the hospital. _Law and Order_ was getting to be somewhat of a bummer."

Reclining in his seat, Will set aside his barely eaten dinner before sliding his arm around the back of the sofa. It was his way of embracing her without truly touching, should she desire the distance. "Alright, so I see your point," he agreed. "Sometimes comedies can act as a sort of soothing balm. They just…help you forget. And people can, too." Sending her a meaningful glance, he immediately averted his eyes toward the television. His collar suddenly felt too tight and he shifted, flexing his hand against the back of the couch. "When I was younger, I used to watch _Gunsmoke_ and other westerns with my dad… _Hollywood Squares_ too, for whatever reason. My dad was fond of game shows. I guess I'm not overly knowledgeable on modern television, though I did watch _Seinfeld_ from time to time. They were the only people more bitter than I am." With a soft chuckle, he slid his hand further downward, just close enough to brush against her hair.

Again, Will managed to surprise Abigail, what with his reaching around the back of the sofa like a teenager at the movies making his big move. Or so she was to believe from other people's stories. He talked about old TV shows, but Abigail couldn't focus on his words. She felt vaguely like when she and Marissa snuck sips out of Marissa's parents' liquor cabinet – the taste of peach schnapps and cinnamon whiskey mingling on her tongue and burning in her chest, everything making her giggle, all slow and dreamy. She caught the last bit and managed to say, "Yeah, Seinfeld's pretty funny."

She felt his hand brush her hair and it was a surge of pure electricity that drove her to move in closer, to curl into his side and rest her head on his shoulder. _Please don't pull away this time._ She was close enough to smell him now, and it reminded her of the hug in his car. "You always smell really nice," she murmured. By which she meant comforting. The scent of his cheap aftershave and his sweat and his dogs, and whatever else was extremely calming to her.

Will suddenly forgot how to breathe. Blinking in stunned silence, he finally lifted his arm and draped it around her shoulders in careful, cautious increments. He didn't wish to embrace her too soon, lest she react poorly and jerk away.

 _You always smell really nice._

He breathed an uneasy laugh. "Well…if you like the smell of dog and aftershave, I suppose I'm your man," he agreed. _Perhaps that hadn't been the best choice of words._ Nevertheless, his stiff posture loosened, and he reclined more easily into the couch pillows. His fingers carded through her hair and he smiled, allowing himself to watch the ridiculous sitcom as he stroked along her scalp and down toward her spine.

 _I'm your man._

The words tugged at her heart, even if the context wasn't ideal, was just some kind of joke. Abigail imagined him saying them for real and it made her ache. She felt Will tense at first but then he seemed to relax, his hands moving through her hair and sending tingles down her spine. She leaned into his hand like a cat, breathing out a soft, contented sound. Her body was responding to the closeness in ways she wasn't used to, but she tried to ignore it. Her heart was beating so fast and all she wanted was to be closer, closer still…she wished that Will would kiss her, gently at first, soft like a gentleman.

"I hope to know you someday…all of you," Will shyly admitted. "That is, if you'll allow me the pleasure. I've gotten to know so few people over the course of my life, but I'd really like to change that with you."

"That's impossible," Abigail said softly. "No one really knows all of anyone, do they? Not even you," she added. "Besides, you might find something you don't like. What then?" Her voice was still light and playful, but the question hurt. Of course he wouldn't like her, not the _real_ her. If he knew the truth, he would probably turn her over himself. But she wasn't the wickedest creature in the woods…and she couldn't let that happen.

Abigail arched into Will's open palm then, feeding his need to touch and _connect_ with another human being. Her question struck a chord in him and he nodded, carefully threading his fingers through her hair. "I suppose that's true," he lowly agreed. "It's almost depressing to realize that no one can _truly_ know you – not even the ones you love most. There _is_ no living person with the capacity to reach into the darkest corners of our minds, and I think that's why we feel lonely…why we try to fill the void with some form of escape." Brushing his thumb along the curve of her cheek, Will offered a tight smile. "I doubt it," he whispered. "There's nothing you could do to make me stop caring, Abigail. Even if you turn out to be a snorer, I'll still have your back." He chuckled at his pitiful joke.

"I don't feel so alone when I'm with you," Abigail confessed. "Maybe you don't need to understand someone completely or know every single thing about them to have a connection. I don't think it makes it less real." She wanted that to be true. She wanted to believe that at some level Will _knew_ her, even if he didn't know everything about her past. "I think sometimes you just meet people and there's something there, you know? Even if it's scary and you want to push it away at first." The light brush of his thumb made her tremble. It would be so easy, she thought. She just had to lean in…but she had no way of knowing how he would react to her kiss. And he would likely be horrified.

Will's joke caught her off guard. It wasn't like he'd be able to hear her snoring on a different level of the house. Not unless she was a really bad snorer. Did that mean he'd imagined them sleeping in the same room at some point? In the same bed even? The thought must have occurred to him on some level, no matter how subconscious.

"I want you to know me. Intimately," Abigail said at last, her voice shaking a little. It was the truth – she _did_ want to let him in, but she just couldn't afford to. "I hope that someday, we can both know each other that way." She did hope that and would continue to do so, no matter how impossible it was.

She looked up at Will then, searching his eyes, each as blue as her own. He had the power to hurt her whether he knew it or not and it was terrifying, but slightly exhilarating at the same time. She understood what desire was all about now, the way she barely felt in control of her own body, how it felt pulled to his like a magnet, how she couldn't stop staring at his lips and all her words kept falling away.

 _Intimately._ Somehow, the way Abigail had spoken the word made Will shiver. "I hope so, too," he mumbled, now cupping the curve of her cheek in his palm. He offered her a smile and closed the distance between them, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, then gently brushed his mouth toward her crown. "It's getting late," he mumbled. "Perhaps you should get some rest."

He kept touching Abigail's face and she wanted him to keep touching her, dreaded when it would stop. He pressed his lips to her forehead, her crown, and she felt calm and safe and _loved,_ and she wished she could hold onto that feeling forever.

All too soon, it was over. "Yeah, you're probably right," she agreed. She wasn't going to force her company on him. She knew he needed a certain amount of solitude.

Taking her bowl from her hands, Will set the dish onto the coffee table before adding his own there as well. He offered her his hand. "Do you need me to help you? Ah…" He flushed a bit, realizing that she might be offended by his constant need to dote. "What I mean is, it's a little dark in here at night, so I'd be happy to set up some nightlights, just in case you need something to help guide you through the halls."

She took his hand and rose. "That would be great. Thanks." She was relieved she didn't have to say goodnight just yet.

Helping her up from the couch, Abigail's hand felt soft and warm in his own and Will smiled, leading her away from their spot and toward the hallway. Her appointed room was dark, and he was quick to flick on a light. "I've got some nightlights in the closet over here," he said. As he rummaged around, he kept his back turned toward the girl. In truth, he had no idea what had just happened back there – what he'd _wanted_ to happen. There had been a strong, ever-present _tugging_ between them, and Will had been quick to sever whatever tie that had been. He could already tell the responding pull was dangerous.

"Here we are," he announced, now withdrawing with a couple nightlights in hand. "Where would you like me to put these? One in here and one out in the hallway?" Gesturing with his hand, he added, "I'll only be a few rooms away, should you need me for whatever reason. I'm a light sleeper, so I'll hear you call out." He hesitated a moment. "Did you maybe want one of the dogs to stay in here with you? They make great company."

Abigail tried not to feel her mood crash as hard as it did. They had the whole weekend to spend together, but one minute Will was talking about wanting to really get to know her, and then the next it was like he was pulling away from her again, dismissing her.

She was quietly sad as she watched him rummage around for nightlights. His response had been so vague – did he feel that way too, connected to her? Sometimes she could feel it between them, like it was almost tangible, but maybe it was all in her head. Maybe she just wanted it to be there so much that she fooled herself.

She nodded when he asked about placing the nightlights.

"You, too. If you need me for whatever reason," she stumbled over her words. "Because I know you have nightmares. So if you had a nightmare, you could call for me if you wanted. Because you have me." Her face felt immediately hot. "For the weekend, you have me here," she amended.

Will's posture tensed. Admittedly, he had forgotten that he'd told her about his nightmares. At the time, it had been an attempt at making her feel less alone – to show her that even grown men had night terrors that gripped them by the throat. Nevertheless, Abigail's offer touched him, though he tried not to let it show as he flashed her a feeble smile. No one had ever been concerned for him before. There had been the perfunctory check-ins, now that he'd committed a traumatic act with consequences, but no one had actually taken him aside, looked him in the eye, and pleaded with him to let them know if he was hurting. Somehow, the realization stung.

"I will… Thank you," he stammered. "I suppose the reciprocation goes without saying."

Abigail hesitated a moment, keeping her eyes on the floor as she laced her hands. "Okay," she finally agreed, "I'll take a dog. If they want to stay with me, that is. Can't just force that kind of thing."

Heading out into the hall, Will applied one of the nightlights before whistling for Buster. The canine had been close by (his curiosity tended to be greater than the others'), and it took little provocation to get him to join them in the guest bedroom.

"Buster will stay with you," Will assured her. "The little traitor clearly took a shine to you earlier today, so I don't see it being a problem." Expression brightening, if only for a moment, he plugged in the remaining nightlight before straightening his stance. Buster hopped up onto the foot of the bed and curled up with a soft, contented sigh.

"See? No one's twisting his arm," Will assured her. He lingered awkwardly a moment, then approached Abigail before taking her hands. "If you need a drink in the middle of the night, there are glasses in the right hand cupboard. Snacks are in the pantry, as well as the candy we're supposed to be saving for alleged trick-or-treaters." With a chuckle, he bent over and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Goodnight, Abigail. I'll see you in the morning." Eyes softening, he brushed his thumb across her cheek before heading toward the door. Buster whined as if he might follow, but immediately lowered his head back onto his paws.

Abigail's cheek felt warm from where Will's lips had touched, from the path his thumb had traced. She felt a surge of affection and almost nearly grabbed his wrist, asked him to stay with her. Instead, she just smiled and looked up at him. "Goodnight, Will Graham," she said playfully. He had covered every possible thing she could need in the night and she was touched by his concern, even if it was a little bit over the top. "I hope you have really nice dreams."

Even though she didn't want Will to leave, she did feel cozy in this little room, surrounded by his past. Buster was adorably curled up at the foot of her bed, and he did make her feel less alone.

Crawling underneath the large quilt (the one Will claimed his grandma had made), Abigail snuggled underneath the blankets and drew them up to her chin, recalling how Will had said this had been his bed as a boy. She inhaled the faded scent of sweat and pine – apparently, he slept in here as an adult on occasion, too – and closed her eyes, drifting off with the sensation that she was being held.

 **A/N:** For those who are curious, the title was taken from The Jezabels' song, "Peace of Mind."

 _Oh, hey there baby, we'll be fine_  
 _I'll always want your peace of mind_  
 _I'll always look forward to better days ahead_

If you all enjoyed reading this, I will consider turning more of our threads into fics. However, it's a **_lot_** of work since I have to splice both of our responses, so I'll only do so if I know we've got a healthy level of readership. Thanks so much for reading! Comments are love!


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